


Of Wings and Wits

by blue_butterfly



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Accidental meeting, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angels, Crack Fic, M/M, Muses, Seduction, Spoiled plans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 01:11:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12760053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_butterfly/pseuds/blue_butterfly
Summary: Dean, a greek muse, is incredibly busy on a mission when someone spoils his plans out of the blue. This someone turns out to be on a mission that has the very same target, but in the end everything turns out differently thanks to an angel of love with no filter, and a muse who succumbs to the effects of too much alcohol.(This is a crack fic).





	Of Wings and Wits

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on a prompt: Dean and Aidan as gods from different pantheons who fall in love.
> 
> This is a rescue post of an old fic that I lost because tumblr closed my account. I have it back now, but you can follow my backup-blog jus in case: blu-be.tumblr.com

* * *

 

Dean dashes around the corner, quickly catching up on his target. The man is fast. One or two times Dean has almost lost him in the crowd, but ultimately he is faster than the man in question. Dean only needs to land a quick touch, to the shoulder maybe or to the man’s back. Anywhere is fine, the contact just has to last longer than three seconds, which is why Dean has been following the man around all morning, waiting for a good moment. Dean takes his job serious, and that’s why he doesn’t go for it when the man stops to grab a latte at a corner shop, and neither when he has to wait for ten seconds at a streetlight. Dean is meticulous. He wants the man to be prepared, sitting down if possible, so he can react appropriately when Dean finally strikes. Everything else would be sloppiness, and Dean doesn’t do sloppy. Ducking a woman's swinging handbag, he snakes through the crowd at top speed, never letting his eyes stray from the man. He takes another corner…

….and is knocked over by something hard and heavy crashing sideways into him, sending him spinning and tumbling to the ground where he lands painfully on his bottom with a thud and a surprised little cry.

Spluttering and spitting out hair and feathers, he sorts out his limbs and disentangles from the source of the accident, finding himself face to face with a slim young man who looks right back at him with huge, chocolate brown eyes. The disturber has long, curly dark hair and an angular, slender face with bushy eyebrows. He’s wearing a red plaid open over a white V-neck. His long legs are squeezed into tight black jeans. His wings flutter angrily as he hauls himself up, white feathers littering the sidewalk, and… - wait a moment.

Feathers? Wings?

Dean looks again. Yes. The man has wings. Large, white pinions springing from his shoulder blades. The lower tips of them almost touch the ground and the upper curve of each wing reaches above his head. They look so fluffy and soft, but also intimidating when the man now spreads and shakes them to get rid of any more loose feathers. They’ve almost got thrice the span of large birds' wings and look pretty impressive.

The man stands and scowls down at Dean, looking even more menacing.

“What the fuck are you?” he hollers, and Dean flinches - then he gets the picture. If  _he_  can see this man’s wings….then the other can see Dean’s, too. It’s an unwritten law in all the pantheons of the world. Their members would always recognize one another, while their distinguishing marks - wings, horns, fangs, tails, halos - remain invisible to mortals.

Dean’s wings are, in comparison, sorry little things in green and red, about the size of an A4 paper sheet, spanning hardly an ell between them and sticking out vertically from his back, so he can’t even see them unless in a mirror. They’re flapping excitedly now, a hectic flutter. He hates when they do this. They always give away when he’s excited or nervous.

“Oi, are you deaf?” The taller man shouts. Blinking, Dean realizes he’s been spoken to, and struggles to his feet. The dark-haired, white-winged man looks furious and Dean cringes almost instantly. One look from those eyes and he feels like he made the stupidest mistake ever. He wants to apologize, remembering just in time that he doesn't know what for, exactly. It’s not he who has to take the blame. After all, he had been the one being knocked over.

“I’m a muse,” he finally picks up the courage to reply shyly, scratching his neck.

The man crosses his arms in front of his chest. “A muse. So, Greek?”

“Yes. And you?” Custom dictates that this question always has to be answered.

“I’m an angel,” the dark-haired man replies distractedly, his eyes looking off into the distance, scanning the crowd. “Shit!”, he curses, throwing his arms up in an exasperated move. “I lost him. He’s gone.”

There’s a lilt to his speech that distinctly marks him out. Irish. An Irish angel. So, most likely a Catholic. Wonderful. Not only has Dean lost his target, he’s also gotten himself into a mess with the Christians. Just great.

“He’s gone. That’s your fault!” The angel fumes again, pacing up along the sidewalk to peer around the corner, striding back again when he obviously can’t find a trace of the man they’ve both been pursuing.

“Who’s gone? Armitage?”, Dean asks stupidly.   
  
“Yeah. How do you know?”   
  
“He was also my target.”

“Huh?” The angel looks at him quizzically. When he sighs, the huge wings heave with the intake of breath, the large strings of muscles working underneath the feathery surface.

Dean watches incredulously as the angel fumbles a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of his very tight jeans and lights one up, the cig hanging easily from one corner of his mouth.

The angel offers him the pack. “Want one?”

Dean shakes his head. “No thanks, I….muses don’t smoke.”   
  
“They don’t? What do muses do then?”   
  
“They…inspire people…” Dean makes it almost into a question because honestly, everyone knows what muses do.

“Right, so they probably don’t drink as well?” 

“Not…not too much, no. It’s more satyrs who are into that.” 

“Is this some kind of, I dunno, purity vow?” The angel giggles stupidly, raising his bushy eyebrows.

Dean’s not too fond of talking muse customs with an ignorant angel, so his answer is somewhat brusque. “If you will, yeah.”

“What about sex?”

Dean’s mouth drops open and he blushes fiercely. Looking to the floor, he shakes his head. “That’s none of your business!”

“I’m an angel of love, darlin'. It’s exactly my type of business.” He grins from one ear to another, showing perfect white teeth. “I’m Aidan,” he then introduces himself, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“Aidan? Is that even a Christian name?”

“Course it is! Even got a bishop named after me. St. Aidan, 5th-century-something. Was patron saint of Ireland long before St. Patrick got the job.”

Dean shrugs, he doesn’t know much about Christian mythology.

“So, what’s your name?” The angel wants to know, and Dean replies with a simple, distracted  _‘Dean’_ , secretly thinking of a way to escape this conversation as soon as possible without being overly rude. However, the angel Aidan, who has a rather loud voice, interrupts his thoughts.

“Dean? That doesn’t sound very Greek.”

Now he’s blushing. He’s never liked his real name, hence the alias, but when asked by another heavenly creature, he’s bound to answer.

“My real name is Iolaus, but  _Dean_  works better for the mortals.”

As expected, the angel laughs out loud and Dean just blushes more and looks to the ground and mumbles for him to shut up, thank you very much. However, Aidan apparently isn’t only an angel of love but also an angel of curiosity as he walks up behind Dean to look at and poke around at his wings.

“Don’t only female muses have wings?”

Dean jerks away. He’s sensitive about his wings. Not everybody gets to touch them just like that.

“Normally, yes. There was a bit of a mix-up because of my hair,” Dean mumbles an explanation as he twists a strand of his golden curls around his index. He hates himself when he’s mumbling like that to hide his embarrassment.

Aidan circles him as he moves, making them look as if they’re engaged in some silly form of dance. “Didn’t you complain?”

_By Olympus, this is one curious angel!_

“Uh, Zeus doesn’t usually take well to that. Complaining could’ve made it worse, and I didn’t want to lose my good position on Apollo’s team.”

“I see. He probably thought the wings go well with your arse in those clothes.” Aidan winks at him, and Dean yelps indignantly.

“Anyway, I understand your motivation. Working on a good team is essential. My boss is an arse. I’d be happy to leave his team any day.”

Dean is a little bit shocked. For an angel, and a catholic one, Aidan has no respect and even less reserve. If Dean were to talk like that about his supervisors, wow - he’d sure as Hades get into trouble.

“Who, God?” 

"Of course not! God, he’s a cool guy. But my direct boss, my team leader - St. Michael, the Archangel. _'Leader of God’s warriors in the final battle'_. Obnoxious little shit. So full of himself.“ Aidan waves a hand in dismissal and puts out the cigarette stub with the heel of his boot. Dean tries to hide his discomfort. This is really none of his business, although Olympus has its fair share of assholes and bullies as well. Dean thinks of Hercules and rolls his eyes. Aidan though has meanwhile ended his rant and is now grabbing Dean by the arm, bringing him back into reality.

"Well, since Armitage is lost and we’re both without a job for the moment, how about we go for a drink? You could have milk or water if you can’t drink beer 'cause of your muse-virginity-abstinence-stuff and all that.”

“It’s not about virginity!” Dean flares up, his wings fluttering angrily. “It’s not like that…”

Before he can finish he’s dragged along the road and into the nearest pub, where he finds himself at a table with Aidan and two pints of Guinness. Blinking, he tries to clear his head. Angels are definitely too fast for him. At least this particular angel is.

“Can get you something else if you wanna?” Aidan offers happily, reaching for Dean’s pint since his own is already half empty.

“No, no. It’s fine. I can, I mean..I’m allowed drink alcohol, it’s not like that.” He carefully lifts the glass to his lips and takes a sip of the strong, dark liquid. Dean doesn’t drink often, for a reason.

Aidan looks rather disappointed at seeing his chance at Dean’s pint go, but he tries to hide it.

Dean smiles behind his glass. If he’s not pulling that menacing scowl, this angel is very cute.

“So, what do you do for a wordly cover?” he attempts small-talk and Aidan’s face lights up at once.

“I’m a pole dancer at a music club.”

A pole dancer. Catholic, Irish, angel, pole dancer. Right. It’s getting better by the second. Dean lifts his beer again and casts a secret glance at the man opposite him. Aidan is slender and tall, his movements fluid, his body absolutely gorgeous. He certainly makes for a stunning dancer.

“Are you checking me out?” Aidan grins and Dean blushes almost as dark as the Guinness in his glass. His wings begin to flutter nervously again.

“Hey,” Aidan says, smiling easily. “I was just kidding, no worries. So what about you, what’s your cover?”

Glad for the distraction, Dean almost sighs in relief. “I…I work at a museum. As a guide.”

“That’s hardly an inspiring job.”

“Yeah, but  _m-u-s-e_ -um, get it? As in, home of the muses,” Dean says, exasperated, and gulps down more of his beer.

Aidan laughs good-naturedly, finishing is own pint. “So, as a muse, can you make my dancing even more flawless?”

“Uh, I'm…not very good at dancing. I’m more f-for painting and drawing and visual art in general, but also music. Muse-ic.” Dean smiles dreamily to himself.

“Ah.”

A moment of silence passes, then Aidan speaks up again. “So, why were you after my target?”

“Richard Armitage? He was also my target, you know,” Dean says, smirking. “Armitage is an incredibly talented cello player. My mission was to send him inspiration for a masterpiece. If he writes it, it will land him a contract and he’ll become world famous.” Dean sighs. Maybe there would be another chance. “Why were you following him?”

Aidan grins this trademark, smashing grin again and Dean is very hard pressed not to stare into the chocolate eyes.

“To make him fall in love, of course.”

“Oh?”

“Yep.” Aidan motions his head to the bar. “See that tall, smug looking man over there?”

Risking a glance, Dean looks over and nods. Of course he knows Lee Pace. A god-awful singer, but an avid collector of fine art.

“American," Aidan explains as if Dean hasn't got a clue. "He owns a small media empire. Very cultured. Armitage was supposed to literally run into him at that corner,” Aidan waves his hand to indicate the spot where all this had started. “You know, coffee spilled over expensive suits and  _I’m sorry, let me buy you a new one_  and all that shit; invitation to dinner as an apology, dinner turns date, and hot, horny sex after that.”

Dean gives another of those indignant little yelps that he is so prone to when he’s nervous, or embarrassed, or both.

“What, gay sex?! You're…you’re an  _angel._  Your church doesn’t allow for things like that!”

Leaning in, Aidan’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper as he winks at Dean. “Believe it or not, the Bible says nothing about homosexuality. And love is a gift of God, so how can it be wrong when two people fall in love? Their gender doesn’t matter.”

Dean blinks. “That's a rather new standard for you guys.”

“Hey, your boss turned into a bull and banged a girl. You’re one to talk about standards!”

“Fair enough.” Dean hides behind his beer, finishing it off in one deep swig. He’s starting to feel just this little bit tipsy, and when Aidan gets up and fetches them another pint, there’s a happy grin on Dean’s face upon the angel’s return.

“So, we messed up and denied Armitage the chance to become either world-famous or have the best sex of his life. Cheers to that!” The Irishman raises his glass, knocking it gently against Dean’s.

“I need to track him down again,” Dean says between dark liquid and the rim of his glass, wiping away a moustache of foam. “I need to make this right.”

“Yeah, so do I. Awful lot of work, getting those two into one and the same space again,” Aidan sighs. “I’ll have to give this case priority tomorrow.”

“No, wait. Tomorrow’s my turn. I’ve been there first, and mine is the more important mission!”

“Ah yeah!? Why so?”

“Because I inspire people to create everlasting works of art!”

“And I inspire them to shag their brains out. That’s more important than some musical notes.”

Dean groans, hiding his face in his hands. “Have you no filter at all?”

“Not usually, no.” Aidan raises his glass again with a grin, and in the end Dean can’t help but do so, too. Curse the alcohol and its ramifications, and curse this handsome angel and his beautiful smile.

By the time they’re at their third pint, Dean is positively glowing, laughing merrily at Aidan’s jokes and maybe looking into the angel’s eyes for a tad too long. His stupid wings give away his excitement again, fluttering nervously, but at least that provides for a little air in this overstuffed place, or why is it so hot all of a sudden?

Speaking of wings…

“Your wings look so fluffy..can I..can I touch them?” Dean blurts out, not able to stop himself.

Aidan roars with laughter. “Who’s got no filter now?” But he leans over and lets Dean touch his wings and oh, they feel indeed soft and fluffy, but also muscly and strong, and when Dean starts to pet them, Aidan makes this slight breathy sound, almost a moan. Reaching for the blond’s hand the angel takes and holds it, circling his thumb over the back of it.

It’s very distracting for Dean, who has a hard time fighting a rush of blood to his face.

Staring into the muse’s eyes, Aidan says in a low, sultry tone that shoots straight to Dean’s groin: “Is that the reason why you don’t drink? Because you end up wanting to touch other people’s wings?”

He makes  _'wings’_  sound like a dirty word.

Dean shakes his head, a heated smile on his face as his blue eyes firmly lock on Aidan.

“No. It’s because muses get incredibly horny when they’re drunk.”

Pleased with himself he watches as Aidan’s jaw drops, his mouth opening and closing again like the proverbial fish on dry land. Digging his hand just this little bit harder into the feathery surface of the wing, he elicits another small moan from the Irish angel.

He rubs his thumb into a small hollow at he top of the wing, causing Aidan to squirm in his seat. Dean watches him with delight. This is too good to be true. Bless the beer, and bless this day.

“So, tell me, angel of love: Can you also make intense orgasms?”

Aidan licks his lips, the pulse at his throat beating wildly as his wings begin to flutter and his pupils dilate into black ponds.

“I dare you to find out. Come and make me see stars, little muse.”

———————

 

**Author's Note:**

> So. Muses generally don’t have wings and St. Aidan never was the patron saint of Ireland, and I sincerely apologize to both Zeus and the Archangel Michael for this.
> 
> There’s a fic out there that I can’t remember the title of, where Aidan is a muse ~ I read that long ago, but I need to credit it here because it partly inspired me to write this. 
> 
> I know that neither muses nor angels are actually gods as requested in the prompt, but this was just too tempting.


End file.
